


An Ill Wind

by hubblegleeflower



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Fingering, Bisexual John Watson, Groping, Hand Jobs, Kiltlock Flash Challenge, M/M, Ogling, Oral Sex, Outdoor Sex, all full clothed and very decorous, also very proper, but there's no one around, but they're not thinking with the biggest head ya know, kiltlock, like they're aware of the issue, mutual ogling, not that safe sex, oh yeah public sex, proper as far as outdoor sub-kilt handjobs go that is, secluded outdoor sex, secretive mutual ogling, so it hardly counts as public
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-01
Updated: 2016-01-27
Packaged: 2018-04-24 08:36:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4912603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hubblegleeflower/pseuds/hubblegleeflower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is a master of disguise, but when he and John don kilts to catch a killer at the Highland Games, it turns out to be quite...revealing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> John and Sherlock in kilts. Also, somewhere in the middle, there might be a case or something, I'm not sure. You can skip that bit if you want. But don't because John does something BAMFy. In a kilt.

“Stop adjusting it.”

“It’s not long enough.”

“It’s plenty long enough, and your socks cover the rest of your legs. If you pull on it any harder, you’ll burst your buckle. Anyway, it’s meant to be worn high on the waist.”

“I’m getting a draught.”

“Enjoy the fresh air.”

“John, this is ridiculous. I am _not Scottish._ I don’t know how I’m supposed to blend in and catch a murderer when I can’t concentrate on anything but the next stray breeze.” Sherlock tugged uselessly at the sides of his kilt, trying for more length and coverage. “I’m going to go change.”

“You can’t, we sent our luggage on to the B&B. You’re stuck with it, Sherlock. Make up your marvellous mind and live with it. The caber toss is about to begin, and if we don’t catch him there, we’ll have to wait until the tug-of-war, and by then it may be too late.”

***

This was not the first time they had had this particular argument. It had begun more or less as soon as they knew they would have to travel to Scotland to catch this killer.

Sherlock had begun acting cagey right away. “John, I think in this case it would be better if _you_ wore the disguise.”

“Me? I’m a rubbish actor, you know that. You’ve told me often enough.”

“Well, yes, and usually you are, but I think this time, under the circumstances, you would be more convincing.” Sherlock crossed the room to the wardrobe, not meeting John’s eye.

“Sherlock, what is going on here? I don’t mind wearing the disguise, it’s not like I’ve never worn a kilt before, but you’re the one who knows what the murderer looks like, you’re the one who know what questions to ask, you’re the – “

“I don’t have to be in a kilt for any of that.” There was an awkward pause. Sherlock sighed, still not turning around. “If you must know, it’s just that I don’t look as…Scottish…as you do. I don’t think I could be convincing. In a kilt.”

“You don’t look _Scottish enough_? With your hair? Sherlock, that makes no sense at all. Are you trying to shut me up with half-truth – oh! _In a kilt._ ” John made a noise and a face reminiscent of Sherlock himself when he’d made a connection that could crack a case. He stared at Sherlock, and a slow grin spread across his face, growing wider and more knowing with each passing moment.

John’s abrupt silence eventually made Sherlock curious enough to look at him, and caught John’s broad, smug expression full-force.

“John, I don’t know what you _think_ you’ve figured out, but you really ought to leave the deductions to me –“

“Oh, no you don’t. I know just what this is. It’s your legs, isn’t it.”

“Don’t be ridicu – “

“No, it is. You think you’ll blend in fine in a shirt and trou, but you don’t look Scottish enough _in a kilt._ You’re worried about your skinny little legs.”

“My legs are not _skinny_ , they’re _wiry._ I can outrun you during any chase you’d care to point to – “

“Because you’re a bloody giraffe and a full head taller than me. Nope, it’s your legs that have you worried.”

“Holmes men have always tended to be somewhat…”

John’s grin grew impossibly wider. “What? Slender? _Willowy_? Or will you just give in and admit you’ve got skinny legs?”

Sherlock sniffed. “Whatever it pleases you to call it, there is such a thing as Scottish calves, and I don’t have them. You wear the kilt.”

“Sherlock, if David Bloody Tennant, with the skinniest legs in the whole United Kingdom, can wear a damn kilt on the red carpet, then Sherlock Bloody Holmes can wear one to the bloody Braemar Gathering to catch a killer.”

“Who?”

“Never mind. We’re both wearing kilts. Maybe we can get you some padded kilt hose to make your calves look bigger.”

“Shut up.” A pause. “Why were you looking at his legs?”

***

The Braemar Gathering was among the biggest Highland Games in Scotland, and tourists came from all over to see the event. As he strolled amongst the crowds in the sunshine, John reflected that they could both have got away with wearing trousers. Certainly plenty of other men were.

That said, Sherlock in particular was decidedly _English._ He looked English. He _acted_ English. As soon as he opened his mouth, of course, he _sounded_ English, and the very kind of English the rough and ready strongmen of the caber toss reacted to with suspicion and not a little scorn. Since even Sherlock knew better than to attempt to put on any sort of Scottish accent, the kilt was certainly a good way to mitigate his otherwise all-pervasive Englishness.

Not that there was anything wrong with being English.

In fact, there was nothing at all wrong, either, with Sherlock’s – what? _Slender_ legs. Covered though they were by hose and kilt, there was enough of a breeze blowing that John was getting a regular eyeful of thigh, and he was willing to admit to himself by now that he didn’t mind at all. He’d teased Sherlock about his skinny legs, sure, but with the amount of time he spent dashing about London, _wiry_ was, in fact, a better word. There were muscles there. There was _strength._

And, not to put too fine a point on it, if you followed them upwards, there was _arse._ And no one could ever disparage Sherlock’s backside, no matter what they might say about his legs. With every gust of wind, John’s gaze would shift unerringly to where no flatmate’s gaze should ever venture. Certainly not so _hopefully._

It was intensely distracting. John had long since resigned himself to the fact that Sherlock was so much more than a flatmate to him, but he thought he’d done an admirable job of hiding his interest from the man himself. But here, with every errant puff of air, his treacherous eyes kept wandering and threatening to give him away completely.

John took to walking in front of Sherlock as much as possible, just to avoid the issue. The damage was done, apparently, because even with no view to anticipate (or appreciate), John still found himself stealing glances back at his friend and thinking how well he looked, with his ears and his cheeks flushed so becomingly. _Must be the sunshine and the out-of-doors._

***

The confrontation took place at the venue for the Tossing of the Caber. Their suspect, Mungo Blair, and two of his potential victims were all participating in the event, and Sherlock lost no time in picking Blair out from where the contenders were milling around behind the barriers.

As they watched, Blair wandered quite close to both of his possible targets, but no interaction between the men was visible. John was beginning to think that they would have to wait until the tug-of-war after all. Just then, though, Blair bent down and made a minute adjustment to the back of his hose, in a swift move that was hard to follow.

“Oh! His _sgian dubh_!” With no more warning, Sherlock was off at a run. John had to scramble to keep up. Whether his legs were skinny or wiry, they were long and they were _fast._ John might have Scottish calves, but they were significantly shorter than Sherlock’s English ones. Sherlock outstripped him before they were halfway across the paddock.

Pounding after him, John did not spare a moment to wonder what the plan was. There was no point. John knew exactly how this was going to go. The plan, and the whole of the plan, was to get to Blair swiftly and take him down in a flying tackle.

The problem was that although Sherlock in the sitting room planning the disguises was under no illusions as to his physical attributes and abilities, Sherlock hot on the scent of a killer was another story altogether. John was well aware that Sherlock’s thin limbs were deceptively strong, but probably not deceptive enough when it came to tackling burly Scotch strongmen. He put on another burst of speed.

***

In the end, John did arrive in enough time to prevent Sherlock from being tossed vertically, flipping over completely and landing unerringly at a twelve o’clock angle to an angry killer. Sherlock had not, in fact, tackled Blair bodily, but instead dove for his right leg and got his fingers around the hilt of the small knife tucked into the top of the hose. Blair dislodged him rather efficiently, but before he could land the kick he was aiming at Sherlock’s kidneys, a small torpedo in blue and gold plaid barrelled into his midriff and carried him off his feet.

By the time John had Blair immobilized (kneeling on his arms with an elbow on his trachea), Sherlock had the knife in an evidence bag and had liberated a vial of murky liquid from the man’s sporran. Things got a little tense for a brief time as local law enforcement (who had of course _not_ been advised about Sherlock’s activities) arrived on the scene demanding explanations. Sherlock, for once, did not antagonize them quite instantly, and gave them the appropriate contacts to vouch for him.

***

It was evening by the time John and Sherlock were free to make their way to the B&B. There was no taxi service in Braemar, but it would be less than a quarter of an hour’s walk to get them there, and night falls slowly in the Highlands in August. They set out from the Gathering grounds at a gentle stroll.

“Well, I think that went rather well.” Sherlock was relaxed and expansive after his success.

“Of course it did. Working out from a tug on his sock that the murder weapon was a poisoned traditional knife was brilliant.”

“Took a while for the sergeant to see it that way.”

“Well, he hadn’t been briefed.”

“Hmm.”

“You can hardly blame him. After all, we’re not exactly _briefed_ either.”

“John…”

“Not surprised he got a little testy…”

“ _John._ ”

“All right.”

They walked along, veering right at the roundabout and heading toward town. Sherlock had checked the directions on his phone and was sure of the way. John had not checked anything, but he was sure of Sherlock.

He’d always been sure of Sherlock. He had never been more sure. All of a sudden, for no reason, John wondered what he was waiting for. No time like the present. He took a deep breath. “I was looking at your legs too.”

Sherlock started. “Too? You knew I was looking at yours?”

“You what?” John stopped dead.

Sherlock looked at him, aghast. “You said _too_!”

“I meant _too_! Yours and David Tennant’s!” John blinked at Sherlock. A small deduction of his own clicked into place. “It wasn’t the sun.”

“Pardon?”

“Your face was pink when I was walking in front of you. I thought it was the sun and the exercise.”

“It wasn’t.” Sherlock paused. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

John gave an incredulous laugh. “I was only walking in front so I wouldn’t keep trying to peek up your kilt.”

“You… really?” Sherlock frowned. “But you’re…” It wasn’t like Sherlock not to go straight to the point, however improbable he thought it might be. “You’re not gay.”

John almost groaned. “Oh, yes, genius at work, right there. Did you of all people really fall for that?”

“Fall for what?”

“That’s what I say to idiots to throw them off the scent. Didn’t think it would work on you.” Sherlock frowned at him, still not getting it but reluctant, now, to ask. John grasped him by both shoulders. “Sherlock. I am _not gay,_ that is quite correct. Which _must_ mean I’m…?”

“Str – Oh. _Oh._ ”

“There it is.” John released his hold and watched his friend process. It didn’t take long.

“Stupid. Stupid. _Obvious._ ”

“Not obvious enough, apparently.” A terrible thought occurred. “Sherlock, did you – ? Were you – ?” John coughed, looked away. Looked back. “Did that hold you back from anything, thinking I was straight?”

“John. _John.”_ Sherlock stared at him in the waning twilight for a long while. Then, “It held me back from _everything._ ”

 _From everything._ The enormity of the wasted time would crush him in another instant, John thought, if he did not move now. He took a step towards Sherlock and slipped an arm around his waist. His other hand reached up and cupped his jaw. Sherlock leaned into the touch. John spoke.“Let’s not… let’s not hold back any longer, then, yeah?”

“Yes. No. I mean – “ Sherlock closed his eyes and took a breath. John kissed him, a soft press of lips, John’s chin tilting up to reach Sherlock’s mouth, Sherlock wilting downward into the kiss.

“ _Yes.”_ Sherlock breathed the word. “That’s what I meant.”

After all that, it was so easy, there at the side of the road in Braemar. They’d passed the pub and crossed the bridge and the noise of the revellers (spillover from the Gathering, only to be expected) was already fading away. They’d turned up a quiet lane past a park with its memorial gleaming white. They stood there, in the shelter of a hedge, hidden from the houses, hidden from the main road, hidden from most passers-by, but, _finally_ , completely visible to one another.

John kissed Sherlock. He kissed him again, closing his eyes and breathing deeply through his nose. He kissed him again, parting his lips slightly, with a tentative flick of his tongue. He kissed him again, and again, bottom lip, top lip, brush of tongue, pull of teeth, so gentle. Again. _Again._ He could not seem to stop.

Even if he could have stopped, Sherlock would not have allowed it. He lowered his head, eyes closed, and let John have his mouth, over and over. When John’s tongue sought access, hovering there on the threshold, so diffident, so unassuming, Sherlock threw the door wide and let him in, made him sure of his welcome. He was so, so welcome.

John stepped closer, bringing their bodies together. His hands spanned Sherlock’s sides, beginning high on his ribs and running downwards, past his hips, until they settled on the outsides of his thighs, gripping and stroking there, bunching the rich fabric under his fingers, then smoothing it again, grasping and releasing in time with the movement of his mouth on Sherlock’s.

With each clench of his fingers, the hem of the kilt rose a little, only to fall again with each release. John gathered it up, then let it go, over and over.

The sensation it created for Sherlock, against the sensitive skin of his thighs, and his unrestrained genitals, was maddening. His cock was already starting to fill. “John,” he whispered. “John, your hands. I want – touch my skin, please.”

John gave a little gasp into the kiss. “Yes, all right.” On his next downward stroke, he allowed his hands to slide all the way down to where the hem lay at Sherlock’s knees. Slipping his hands underneath the edge of the plaid, he brought his hands upward again, this time resting directly on Sherlock’s bare thighs. He continued to stroke little circles into Sherlock’s skin, feeling the fineness of the hairs and the leanness of the muscle, circling a little higher with each pass, until his hands were grasping at Sherlock’s hips and the fabric of the kilt was gathered heavily over both his wrists.

His hands did not stray further, as they kissed more and more deeply, and Sherlock’s breath came faster with wanting. It was all he could do not to press his cock directly into John’s hands, but he angled himself against John’s body, twisting his hips, willing John to move, to – “Just _touch me,_ John.”

John stilled and pulled away slightly, his eyes seeking Sherlock’s. “Is it all right? I mean, yes, god yes, I want to – ” Here John drew a steadying breath, and his fingers spasmed on Sherlock’s skin. “God, I want to. But here? Let me at least take you back to my room.”

“All right, hurry, but yes, all right, yes, anything you want.”

“It’s just – I want this to last.”

It didn’t, though. They didn’t make it further than the next stone wall. They were trying to walk with their arms around each other and their bodies close together, thrilling at every point of contact and stumbling over each other’s feet trying to get closer, trying to kiss and touch and stroke. John did not know who he’d thought he was kidding; he could not take another step without his hands on Sherlock.

John gave up and pushed Sherlock backwards until he was flat against the stone wall, pressing rough kisses onto his mouth and dragging at the sides of his kilt again, gripping thighs and hips, talking, asking breathlessly for everything he wanted.

“All right, all right, yes, I’ll touch you, I can’t wait. Can I?” His breath hissed, once, through clenched teeth. “Please? Can I touch you, now? I’m sorry, I changed my mind, I don’t want to wait. Please.”

“ _Yes. Jesus,_ John, yes. Do it now.”

And that was enough, John’s hands were suddenly everywhere. His right hand slid behind to knead at the swell of Sherlock’s arse, while his left hand, _oh,_ his left hand brushed across his thigh to grasp the length of his cock, fingers under bollocks and palm pressing shaft, claiming almost the entire length of it in one insistent hand.

A twist of his wrist, and his fingers were encircling Sherlock’s cock, giving it a pull and a squeeze, and then passing his thumb through the moisture that appeared at the head. Another pass of his thumb through the slickness elicited a moan from Sherlock, and a third pass, more firm than the last, had Sherlock arching into his hand.

“Shhh, steady, sweetheart, steady.” The endearment fell effortlessly from John’s mouth as he stroked him slowly and gently cupped his arse. “ _Ah,_ you’re lovely. I’ve been wanting to get my hands on you for a long time.”

“Me, too.”

“Good, now let me – ” Here John’s hand made a move towards the cleft of Sherlock’s arse. “Oh, sorry, wait – ” He withdrew his hand and offered two of his fingers to Sherlock. “Get these wet for me, would you, love? You see what I want – yeah? Is it all right?”

In reply, Sherlock took his fingers swiftly and deeply into his mouth and made an enthusiastic noise, which drew a dark chuckle from John. He sucked at them sloppily, and swirled his tongue all around them, and thought filthy thoughts about where they were going to go, and moaned into John’s hand.

When his fingers were thoroughly waterlogged, John withdrew them from Sherlock’s mouth and reached back around. He’d been pumping Sherlock’s cock gently all the while, and began to stroke more steadily with his left hand as the fingers of his right hand settled lightly over the sensitive furl of Sherlock’s hole.

At the first touch of fingers to hole, Sherlock gave a whimper and arched his back, seeking more contact. John pressed more firmly against his opening, his slippery fingers swirling around the outside, stroking, circling, moving in rhythm with the pull of his other hand on Sherlock’s stiff penis. Sherlock began to move his hips, first backward to press against John’s fingers, then forward to thurst into his fist.

John stilled his hands a little, letting Sherlock set the pace, meeting thrusts with answering pressure of his own. As Sherlock rocked under his touch, he – so often nearly taciturn – found himself murmuring in a steady stream, almost without thought. “That’s it, that’s it, oh, yes, oh, yeah. You know what you want, sweetheart. Show me. Show me what makes you feel good. Tell me.”

“John – I want… inside me, please.”

“Yeah? I can? _Oh, god,_ that’s gorgeous. Good. Good lad.” It should all have sounded ridiculous, but he could not have stopped himself, and Sherlock allowed himself to be spurred on by the flow of encouragement. “I love this, Sherlock, this is beautiful. Oh, sweetheart, that’s it, that’s so good, oh, you’re beautiful, Sherlock, you’re absolutely – oh, yeah, that’s it, take it faster if you want, hard as you like, you feel amazing – ”

And John tightened his fist on Sherlock’s cock, and curled his fingers just _so_ to brush his prostate, and Sherlock gave a muffled cry and was coming, _coming_ , coming hard into John’s hand under his kilt, and John was senseless and breathless with praise, “Oh, love, oh love, thank you, oh, that’s for me, I know it is, I love it, thank you, sweetheart, shh, you’re lovely, you’re lovely. There. Just…shhh. There.”

They rested there, in the shadows of the hedge, Sherlock’s head on John’s shoulder, breathing together. After several beats Sherlock started suddenly, and made a move toward John’s erection (still very present and doing strange things to the line of his kilt, sporran notwithstanding). John stopped him. “There’s no rush. That is, not anymore. I just – I couldn’t wait to touch you. I can wait a bit for this, though.” A pause. “Erm, it’s not far, is it?”

“Just over the road. Two minutes.” Sherlock smiled, and subsided again onto John’s shoulder. “You couldn’t wait? How long have we already been waiting, John?”

“Long. Incredibly long. _Stupidly_ long. That’s why I couldn’t wait.” He ducked his head and they kissed again, sweetly now, with less urgency.

Presently, Sherlock pulled away and straightened up, gathering his wits about him. He used the inside of his kilt, already ruined, to clean John's hand and his own spent cock, then settled his sporran back into place, where it served admirably to cover the wetness there. By the time he spoke, it was in his usual imperious tones. “Enough public indecency, John. Let’s get to the B&B. I have incurred certain…obligations, which I am anxious to fulfill.” Despite his haughtiness, he was shy as he offered John a hand. John took it firmly. They set off again, walking close together, smiling.

“I have news for you, Sherlock. The state you’re in? You’re the poster boy for public indecency at the moment.” John did not sound as if he minded this at all.

Sherlock grinned unrepentantly. “Yes. I do think this kilt is rather a loss.”

“Hah. You may be right.”

“The rental company won’t take it back like this. We’ll have to buy it off them.”

“Oh, yes, that’s not in question. That kilt’s not going anywhere.”

“No?”

“No.” John glanced sidelong with a slow smile. “We’ll definitely be needing it again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Factual stuff I looked up:  
> * The Braemar Gathering events and dates (I even checked the phase of the moon for the 2015 Gathering)  
> * Directions to popular B&Bs from the grounds of the gathering  
> * The Watson tartan (like we haven't all looked that up at some stage)  
> * Availability of taxis in Braemar  
> * Whether every kilt-wearer goes _au naturel_ under their kilts (they mostly do, except for in wrestling, sadly)  
>  * You can get special kilt hose for skinny calves. [Here's a discussion you might find helpful.](http://www.xmarksthescot.com/forum/f103/need-advice-kilt-hose-skinny-legs-46476/index2.html)
> 
> See? Diligent research.
> 
> Factual stuff I ignored:  
> * Most of the roads between the bridge and the B&Bs are not really secluded enough for what John and Sherlock got up to. Really not.  
> * Stuff it, they took a detour.  
> * Desperate times...
> 
> Also,  
> [here is David Tennant in a kilt](http://www.socialitelife.com/photos/david-tennant-looks-great-in-a-kilt-for-the-premiere-of-what-we-did-on-our-holiday/what-we-did-on-our-holiday-6)  
> 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock make it back to the B&B, quite untidy and _very_ distracted. Further consummation ensues. Sex and silliness, pretty much in that order.

Everything had changed.

When they’d begun their walk to the B&B, they were flatmates and partners in crime-solving and friends. Now, after a brief stop in the shadow of a hedge and a stone wall, they were…something else entirely.

What, exactly? Well, for one thing, he was holding John’s hand. He had offered his hand hesitantly, uncertain of John’s reaction, but John had taken it immediately and with a small, wondering smile.

Second, and perhaps more suggestive of a significant change, the hand he was holding was slightly sticky with the inadequately-wiped remnants of Sherlock’s semen, the rest of which was drying on the inside of his rented kilt.

Furthermore, John’s other hand was also…compromised. Sherlock flushed as he imagined the tackiness of dried saliva and the odour that would still be clinging to John’s fingers after…where they’d been.

Finally, the line of John’s kilt was completely ruined by the slightly flagged but still rather prominent erection that his sporran did very little to hide, if you knew where to look. (Sherlock did.)

John had been sporting it since they’d first stepped into the shadows, where they’d become…whatever it was they were. Though perhaps Sherlock was being too literal here – it certainly seemed they’d been… _this_ …for some time, in everything but fact.

 _Hah._ What was there to _everything_ apart from _fact?_  It was a completely illogical thought.

Sherlock did not actually care. John had an erection, that was the point. John was walking with Sherlock and holding his hand, still sticky with Sherlock’s come, and John was hard. Specifically, John was hard _for Sherlock._

And shortly, Sherlock was going to be allowed to do something about it. He gave John’s hand a little squeeze as anticipation lanced through him.

John returned the pressure with a little smile. “You all right?”

Sherlock looked at John, squinting. “I’ve just had a spectacular orgasm up against a stone wall, your hand is still carrying traces of my seminal fluid, your penis is hard and you’re not wearing pants, and in a few minutes I’m going to lift up your kilt and use my mouth to make you come. _Yes,_ John. I think we can safely say I am _all right_.”

John’s eyes went a little dazed and his jaw slacked somewhat. He cleared his throat. “Ah. Right.”

“With your permission, of course,” it seemed courteous to add.

“Of course.” John blinked twice. “Um, yeah. Yes. That sounds…fine.”

Sherlock stopped short. “ _Fine?”_

“Yes, fine.” John grinned at him sidelong. “Of course fine. Better than fine. Amazing.” A pause. “Actually, quite literally a dream come true. Just. I, uh, didn’t know you could talk like that.”

 _Ah._ Sherlock smirked back at him. “You can have dirty talk or your cock in my mouth, John, but even I can’t manage both at once.”

“Jesus.” John swayed a little, his eyes on Sherlock’s mouth. “Are we nearly there yet?”

***

Checking in brought with it an agony of social niceties.

The hostess was a pleasant woman who took her role very seriously, and she nattered away being _helpful_ until Sherlock was in a state of utter despair. He couldn’t even shut her up with a scathing deduction because, firstly, in spite of Sherlock’s best piercing stare, he could deduce nothing even remotely objectionable about the woman, and secondly, it would annoy John.

He identified, also, what he suspected was an unwillingness to _hurt her feelings_ , which only went to show precisely how affected he was by the wholly unanticipated and earth-shattering pleasure of coming into John Watson’s hand at the side of the road.

By the time they were actually able to excuse themselves up to their rooms, they’d been informed of the times for breakfast, the menu items, that there were three other guests (a couple and a single) who might join them, which of their keys was for which door, rates and availability for bicycle hire, procedures for ordering a packed lunch and how to operate the boot dryer.

They’d also been handed map of the Cairnwell Munros and six brochures for local attractions that Sherlock knew without looking would contain _absolutely nothing_ about the size and heft of John Watson’s penis, nor the taste and consistency of his ejaculate, which were the only things that could _possibly_ interest him at this moment and why, why, _why_ had he chosen today of all days to suddenly value _politeness?_

At last, _at last_ she handed over their keys and pointed them up the stairs.

When Sherlock stopped at the door of his room, however, his relief gave way to alarm when John, for no reason that he could deduce or even imagine, _kept walking down the hall._

There was no way he’d mistaken John’s eagerness. And yet...

“John.” He kept the interrogative lift off the end of the name only by dint of the most rigorous self-control. He looked from John’s face to his own bedroom door, indicating precisely where he thought Doctor Watson should be right now, and it certainly wasn’t _one door down the hall._

To his surprise, John flushed pink. “I, uh, have some things in my bag that we might need.”

Things? Oh. _Things._ That was…unexpected. And mightily wonderful. “Ah. Right. Yes.”

“Or not,” John hastened to add. “We might not. Want them. Just…you know. In case.”

There was nothing Sherlock did not want with John Watson. The corridor was not the place to express this. “Go. Hurry.” He pushed his own door open. “And don’t you dare change out of that kilt.”

Sherlock looked around his room. It was…unobjectionable, which was more than he could usually say about B&B bedrooms, and their décor. There was a padded bench by the window, an easy chair with a round table and a lamp in the corner, a chest of drawers along the wall, and a large bed.

There was a complete, rather pleasant absence of cabbage roses on the bedding or curtains.

His luggage had been delivered and was tucked away in the corner. The artwork consisted of landscape photographs. The ensuite was beside the door. There was a mirror next to the light switch. John would be there shortly to have sex with him.

 _John would be there shortly to have sex with him._ His flippant confidence deserted him in a rush.

Sherlock was not panicking. Why should he panic? This was what he’d been wanting all along, for almost as long as he’d known John, and he’d hidden it so admirably and so completely that John had had _no idea_ that there was any desire there at all. (There was, oh, there was.)

And now it turned out John, while not gay, was bisexual, and wanted Sherlock, enough to kiss him, enough to back him against a wall in the twilight and reach under his kilt with both hands. Enough to wrap one hand around his cock and slide two fingers up his arse, whispering encouragements, cheering him on, and make him come and come and come.

 _(And call him sweetheart,_ he didn’t quite dare remind himself, _and call him beautiful.)_

There was nothing to panic about.

So when John knocked on the door, he did not jump or twitch in the slightest. He stood by the bed.

“Come in.”

John entered. He closed the door carefully behind him, and turned to face his friend. There was  a short silence.

John said, “Um.”

Sherlock didn’t reply.

There was another silence, slightly longer. John’s hair was disheveled and his sporran was askew. Which was fair enough, since Sherlock’s kilt was still damp and semen-stained. But John still wasn’t speaking, and it seemed like a long way from where he stood at the door to where Sherlock waited, immobile, by the bed. Neither man made a move to cross the divide.

(It was the same old paralysis, the same old habit of silence they’d perfected together, over the years. No surprise it should prove so difficult to break.)

Finally, John spoke. “I’m not going to lie, Sherlock. I’ve been wanting to get my hands on you for a long time. That was bloody fantastic and I want it again, but if you’re feeling uncomfortable about it – ”

“I’m not uncomfortable,” Sherlock said quickly.

John clenched his hands. “You look a little nervous.”

“I’m not –” But denials had got them months and years of _not touching each other_. “All right, I am nervous. But I – ” He hesitated, then finished in a rush. “I want it anyway.” He met John’s eyes.

John smiled where he stood, and relaxed his hands. “Good, then. I – that’s good. Me too.”

“So…”

“So?”

Sherlock huffed an impatient sigh. “ _So,_ John, if you could tear yourself away from the entryway and _get over here,_  that would go a long way towards moving this along.” He gave a small half-smile. “We have some unfinished business. I made you a promise.”

“You don’t have to –”

“Come _here_ , John.”

“Right.” John did.

When they’d been outside, in the dark, and John had first reached for him, Sherlock had been eager, bordering on desperate, to get as much contact as possible. They’d groped and fumbled and tripped over one another in their fervour. There had been a frenzy of _touch_ and _kiss_ and _more_ and _now_ and a hungry _grasping_ for skin.

Now, though, in the safety of the bedroom, with the practicalities of keys and breakfast times and the brief wash that John had – clearly – managed in his room, and the lube and condom packets he had just placed on the bedside table, there was more of a tenderness to his desire, less of an edge.

He reached out for John’s face with his fingers and drew him near, pausing for one more searching look before bringing their lips together. John responded immediately, tilting his head and bringing his body in closer. They wrapped their arms around each other, still kissing, and both men sighed.

Now he could feel John’s body firmly against his own, as his tongue delved deeply into John’s mouth. Earlier he’d been keen to allow John to access as much of his own mouth as possible, but now he was the one seeking entry.

He needed to feel the slickness of lips and the textured slide of tongue, to sip and suck each lip in turn and both together, to savour the brush of air on his face as John drew deep, unsteady breaths and released them, and to taste his gasps under a nip of teeth.

John stretched his neck and opened his mouth and allowed Sherlock all the access he sought, sighing and panting under his mouth. Sherlock took advantage of the stretch to kiss down John’s bared throat, nipping at the delicate skin, burrowing into the fragrant warmth beneath John’s ear and relishing the tiny sounds that emerged in time with his kisses.

When Sherlock’s hands moved down his back to grasp his buttocks, John gave a breathy moan and pressed impossibly closer.

John’s body was plastered to his from chest to thigh, and Sherlock could feel how hard he was already. He gathered up more of John’s arse in his fingers and used his grip to pull John’s hips firmly towards him, so that John’s straining erection slotted up against his own rapidly refilling penis. Both men groaned.

“ _Oh, god,_ Sherlock. That’s – that’s right. This feels – I can’t believe how good this feels.” John tilted his hips back into Sherlock’s hands, then let Sherlock pull him forward again, and again, their cocks rutting together and John’s breath coming now in little gasps with each renewal of pressure.

When John tried to speed up the rhythm, though, Sherlock – despite revelling in John’s wanton thrusts – slid his hands around to John’s hips and stilled him.

“Sher – ?” John’s eyes searched his face, his cheeks flushed, his mouth open.

Sherlock frowned at him. “This isn’t how I want you to – I have _plans,_ John.”

“Plans.” John stared at him, blinking. He took a breath, then another. His mouth was still open. “All right.”

John dropped his arms to his sides and waited, looking at Sherlock… _expectantly._

 _God._ John was going to stand there and let Sherlock… _arrange_ him. Let Sherlock do what he wanted. _Whatever_ he wanted. _All right_ , he had said, and he meant it. He meant _all_ of it.

_Extraordinary._

Swallowing around the rush of saliva that had suddenly flooded his mouth, Sherlock grasped John’s hips and steered him so that the backs of his legs were pressed against the bed. Reaching around behind him, he unbuckled his sporran and let it fall to the floor. With a little nudge, he made him sit, then pushed him down onto his back.

And there was John, lying on his back, staring at Sherlock with wide, dark eyes. There was John, with swollen lips and a flushed face. There was John, panting _for Sherlock_ , hard _for Sherlock_ , his hips canted forward just a tiny bit, offering. Offering _to Sherlock._

Sherlock looked and said, _Oh, yes, please._

Sherlock stood over John, holding his gaze. He bent and placed a hand on each of John’s thighs, and lowered himself to his knees.

Immediately, as if unable to break the eye contact, John raised himself up onto his elbows.

“John. I – ” _He’s a doctor, he’ll be wanting –_ “I would rather not use a condom.” Sherlock didn't plan to argue, but he'd wanted to at least ask. 

John gazed at him for a long moment. Finally he said, “I’m clean. I haven’t – I’m clean. It’s – go ahead. I’d like that.” 

Sherlock let out a little sigh.

John watched intently as Sherlock circled his palms over the thick fabric of the kilt, massaging the firm muscle underneath. He watched as Sherlock leaned forward, rubbing and nuzzling his way up John’s leg with his nose, with his chin, with his cheeks, until his face was hard up against the bulge under the smooth wool.

At the first press of Sherlock’s face on John’s cock, John’s eyes fluttered closed and he let out a breathy sigh. He seemed to be struggling to control the movement of his hips, which were jerking in tiny, abortive thrusts against the pressure of Sherlock’s face through the tartan. His breathing – Sherlock thrilled at the little hitches that came on every exhale.

Sherlock’s breathing was growing uneven as well. Even without direct contact with John’s skin, with John’s cock, the sensation was overwhelming. He _bunted_ into John’s groin, letting the smell and the heat wash over him, pressing his nose into the softer flesh of John’s bollocks and then nudging and rubbing his cheek and jaw up and down the outline of the shaft.

He breathed deep and nestled in with his face, feeling the contours of John’s straining erection through the blue and gold cloth.

John groaned when Sherlock closed his lips around the head of John’s cock, through the kilt. He was still up on his elbows to see, but his eyes were trying to close, and his head kept falling back. Sherlock tongued the shape beneath the wool, dampening the fabric, which seemed too thick to allow for much sensation.

He tried his teeth instead, and John shouted. “Oh _god,_ Sherlock, oh god, please, please, I need –”

Sherlock smiled up at him through his lashes, his lips still pressed against the sodden cloth. “What, John? What do you need?”

“I need to feel you, Sherlock. More than this. Please – if you want, you said – you said –” John hardly seemed aware of the way his hips were jerking against Sherlock’s mouth in time with his words.

“Yes?” _God,_ John’s voice already sounded wrecked. Sherlock wanted to hear more. It was cruel, perhaps, to make him say it, but these words, this tone – in _John’s voice_ – Sherlock couldn’t get enough. He swiped another firm lick across the wool-clad head of John’s cock, prompting another groan. “Yes, John? What did I say?”

John stilled his frenzied thrusts and looked Sherlock in the eye, his blue eyes dark with desire, his voice firm, now. Resolved. “You said you wanted to make me to come with your mouth.”

Sherlock returned his gaze with a slow smile. “Yes, I do.” _Oh, god, did he ever._

An almost pained expression crossed John’s face and he shivered, but he did not look away. “Then that’s what I need, love. Your mouth. On me.” He took a breath. “Please.”

 _(Beautiful. Sweetheart._ And now _Love._ These words, too, in John’s voice.)

Drawing back, Sherlock stroked his palms back down John’s thighs until he came to the hem of the kilt. He gathered the fabric into his hands, preparing to lift it away and bare John’s body to his gaze and his touch.

When he did, it was with no less reverence than a bridegroom at a wedding.

Because now there was John’s stiff cock, flushed, straining, evidence of John’s arousal, yes, but also evidence of his _desire._ John _wanted_ Sherlock, had wanted him for a long time, and here was the proof, hard and undeniable, waiting for Sherlock’s mouth.

Sherlock had paused, to gaze and wonder, perhaps too long, for when John spoke next, his voice was strained.

“ _Please,_ Sherlock. I want to feel you. Please.”

That was enough to bring Sherlock back. _John was begging._ He licked his lips, ducked his head, and wrapped his mouth around John’s cock…

…and moaned explosively at the burst of stimuli. _John’s cock_ , the shiny dark skin of the head stretched taut, fully emerged from the foreskin. The slit, weeping slick, the taste indescribable, the veins standing out, clear and defined against his tongue. Taste and texture, yes, and the heady knowledge that all these sensations came from _John’s cock in his mouth._ Sherlock’s own erection was back full force.

John had also started making noises when Sherlock’s mouth covered the head of his cock. His thighs were trembling already with the effort of keeping still – though they did stretch wider apart as Sherlock took him more deeply into his mouth. When the head of his cock dragged along Sherlock’s soft palate, John’s moan was deep and heartfelt.

 

The next time, he concentrated, and took John all the way in.

The sensations again came at him in a wave. There was the tickle of John’s thatch of pubic hair agains his nose, the dusky smell of him, strongest at the base of his hard penis. There was the pressure of hot, hard flesh against his tongue, which he slid and stretched and rolled along John’s whole tactile length as John moaned and writhed and tried not to thrust upward.

There was pride, too, in his own accomplishment, and the thrill that _he_ was the cause of the increasingly frenzied noises that were now coming from John’s throat.

The surprise, too, that this could be so _pleasurable._ Not just the pleasure of giving John pleasure, but the actual feeling of having his mouth filled up with cock, of the almost-too-much pressure on the back of his mouth, of the the relentless friction against his own reddened, slavering lips. _Erotic._

Add to it all the vision of John, unable to hold himself up on his elbows any longer, his head thrown backwards, his hands clenched in the bedsheets, his thighs wide and trembling. He was a picture of complete abandon, complete surrender.

 _I did that,_ Sherlock thought, and a warm feeling slid through his belly alongside his arousal, giving it added magnitude. _That’s for me._

Now he began to work in earnest, tucking his hands under John’s buttocks and pressing upwards with his palms, encouraging the little thrusts John was trying so valiantly to control. He slid down to meet each push, taking John’s cock even deeper into his mouth.

He pulled back and mouthed at the head, tucking his lips over his teeth and using them to squeeze the glans, then sucking wetly as his tongue worked along the underside. John was slippery with pre-ejaculate now, the taste sharper and stronger on Sherlock’s tongue.

He sucked and licked and lipped and sucked and kissed until John’s noises changed pitch, then suddenly plunged back down again, to the base, again using his hands to spur John’s thrusts, again eagerly meeting each one.

John was now no longer trying to restrain his thrusts, but was instead scrabbling for purchase on the floor. He’d untangled one hand from the covers and stuffed it into his mouth to contain his sounds, but it did little to muffle the keening whimpers that emerged in rhythm with their movements.

Then John’s hips jerked erratically and he whipped his hand out of his mouth in time to cry out, “Sherlock, Sherlock, I’m –”

Sherlock pulled back and wrapped his fingers around John’s cock. He gave three strokes, four, and then John gave a final cry and came, shuddering, over his hand. Sherlock watched intently as the fluid spurted and bubbled and John quivered through to the end of his orgasm.

There was John, now, head thrown back, his breathing slowly returning to normal, sated, the flush fading from his chest, the hem of his kilt up around his waist and – Sherlock noticed for the first time – _his boots still on._ Cradling his muscular, Scottish calves. He was delightfully mussed and debauched – he looked like pure sex.

_Beautiful._

Sherlock came back to himself when he realised that John was gazing at him from where he lay on the bed, and also that he himself had reached under his own mistreated kilt and was stroking himself almost absentmindedly at the vision that was a post-coital John Watson.

“You look incredibly hot right now.” John’s eyes were fixed on him.

Sherlock gave a short laugh. “I was thinking the same thing about you. For all that you look completely degenerate, with your skirt hiked up and your boots still on.”

John winced. “You did _not_ just call this a skirt. You know that Scotsmen have a sixth sense about these things, don’t you? There will be half a dozen of them breaking down the door in a minute.”

“They’ll be disappointed. You’re all mine.” He meant it as a joke. _No, you didn’t._ No. He meant for John to _take it_ as a joke.

But John’s face went serious. “Am I?” he asked softly.

Sherlock took a breath. His hand, which had been gently pumping his cock under his kilt, went still. Tonight, of all nights, demanded honesty. “I – John. I hope so." _Beautiful. Sweetheart. Love._ Oh, he hoped. "I’m…I’m all yours, anyway.”

John’s mouth opened and a tiny sigh escaped. He closed his eyes.  _Oh, no._

“John?” Had he said too much? “Not good?”

John’s eyes shot open. “Not – ? Oh, god, Sherlock. No. Good. _Good._ Very good. Bloody unbelievable.” He gave a brief smile. “Just a lot to take in. I’ve wanted this for _so long._ I’ve wanted you. For so long.”

 _Oh._ A warm feeling washed through him and pooled in his belly next to his molten arousal. Sherlock’s erection seemed to respond well to the sensation, and his hand began to move again, still without much conscious direction on his part.

John focused on the movement under Sherlock’s kilt. His eyes twinkled. “Anyway, who are you calling degenerate? You with your hand up under your come-stained kilt? You’re positively sinful." He licked his lips. "Lift that hem up so I can see what you’re doing.”

“Lift – ? Oh.” _Oh._ John wanted to watch. A shiver ran through him at the very thought – how often had he imagined John in the room with him while his fist was on his cock? And now here they were, and _John wanted to see._

There was an awkward moment, as the hem would not stay up on its own, and kept falling back down over Sherlock’s hand. He couldn’t exactly hang it on his own erection, and he wanted to use both hands, and the fabric was rough on the sensitive head of his penis… But he was not a genius for nothing, and soon solved the problem by stuffing the hem into the waistband until it stayed put.

And then he stood there, unabashed, with his kilt tucked up and, yes, his boots still on, cock on display for a rapt John Watson. He set to his task, stroking and squeezing, _fastfastfastfast slow_ , long sliding passes from root to tip, and then swirls of his palm over the head, while his other hand caressed his thighs and worked his testicles.

John watched, as if spellbound, his eyes growing dark again, his lids heavy, his tongue darting pinkly over his lips. When Sherlock ran a thumb through his slippery, almost _dripping_ pre-ejaculate, John gave a deep moan…

…and suddenly Sherlock’s performance was no longer a show. His fist moved fast, his fingers tightened, and his left hand gathered his balls up close to his body. Three more strokes, four, and Sherlock jerked his hips and came, thighs trembling, while John Watson gasped and panted but did not look away.

Sherlock returned his gaze unwaveringly. 

_I'm all yours._

***

John left long enough to bring his overnight bag back into Sherlock’s room. They hardly discussed it; there was no question of sleeping apart. They fell into their familiar patterns from Baker Street, moving around each other to accomplish their bedtime tasks.

There were significant differences, of course. They disrobed in the same room, for one thing, and looked their fill. There were shy smiles, and wondering caresses. There were kisses in passing. Tomorrow they might discuss What It All Meant but for right now, they gloried in the re-drawn boundaries. They smiled wordlessly and a little uncertainly at one another over the as-yet-unused lube and condoms still on the bedside table. Perhaps that would be discussed tomorrow as well. It was all so new.

John, ever practical, insisted on washing out Sherlock’s kilt in the ensuite, scrubbing away at the semen stain.

Sherlock wasn’t sure why he was bothering, and said so.

“Who knows? We might want to wear them again tomorrow.” John hung it carefully over the shower bar.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Oh, yes, I am so looking forward to another day spent at the mercy of every stray gust of wind.”

They climbed into bed. “Hey, don’t be rude. We’ve got that wind to thank for how this day turned out.” The wind, and the tantalizing and forbidden glimpses it had offered them.

 _John's striding thighs, the muscle and the crisp golden hair._ “I suppose you’re right.”

John settled down into his pillows, opening his arms for Sherlock, who settled into them with a contented sigh.

John kissed his hair. “And I, for one, have it to thank for one spectacular orgasm, so I guess what they say is true.” He leaned over and switched off the lamp.

Sherlock could _hear_ John’s pleased grin in the dark. It would be churlish not to ask, and Sherlock was feeling expansive. “Well? What do they say?”

Sherlock braced himself when John giggled. “It’s an ill wind that, er, _blows_ no good.”

 _Ugh._ It was even worse than his _testy_ joke.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and could not imagine being happier.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you imagine my delight to find that the expression _It's an ill wind that blows no good_ actually has a Scottish connection? I thought I was just making a childish joke about wind and kilts and blowjobs, but look at this, Sir Walter Scott used it in Rob Roy:  
>  "Nane were keener against it than the Glasgow folk, wi' their rabblings and their risings, and their mobs, as they ca' them now-a-days. But it's an ill wind blaws naebody gude."  
> [(Source)](http://www.phrases.org.uk/meanings/ill-wind.html)  
> I have a third chapter planned that is much more silliness than smut...at the moment, anyway. The smut always worms its way in somehow.
> 
> Finally, can it be "Leave-a-Comment January"? Or whatever it takes for you to, you know, leave a comment? Because I am _sure_ I'd be able to manage chapter 3 _much faster_ if there were lots of comments. Don't know if that's a motivator for you. Just saying, though.


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